


Necessary Measures

by infinite_wonders



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol (2011), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Cute, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol - Freeform, Plot Twist, Snark, and do other plebeian things, and sleep, and will force them eat, but that's not until later, motherhen!Q, slight crossover with, that the 00s resent but secretly love, wherein Q has a compulsive need to take care of the agents under his purview
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-18
Updated: 2013-04-17
Packaged: 2017-12-08 19:50:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/765320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infinite_wonders/pseuds/infinite_wonders
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>or; how Q singlehandedly cows trained assassins into eating their vegetables and sleeping on time and is surprised when they inevitably discover parts of himself that he's been trying to keep on the dl: A Story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Necessary Measures

**Author's Note:**

> Warning, this is barely betaed. PrincessNiallxHoran gave it a readover and said it was ok, and I'm going to ask Ferrari to beta when she has the chance.
> 
> Also, none of the 00s are canon. I haven't used names but I've been gender specific. Odds are, I picked all the wrong genders and crossed 00s somewhere. Apologies. Also, the usual warning: OOC, bad writing, this is poorly plotted out, etc.
> 
> On a final note, follow us on Tumblr!! We put up snippets of our respective fics and we take prompts, which we love.  
> <http://thetwowriters.tumblr.com>

It starts like everything else starts in an organization like MI6, with the yearly budget meeting, one newly instated quartermaster, and a shark like grin that looks bad enough going into the room but looks even worse coming out.

Or maybe that’s just them.

Either way, no one is really a hundred percent sure of what happens in the twenty minutes that Q spends inside of the room. What they do know is that when he comes back out, Q-Branch’s budget has nearly quadrupled and every austere, well-respected face in that committee looks a little like they can only _wish_ that they’d just been raked over the coals.

As it is, Q refuses to share his secrets and the rest of MI6 remains woefully underfunded, but nobody complains because the very next day, Q Branch starts to crank out new tech. The very next month, the mortality rate hits an all-time low, and the month after that, they’re actually able to function the way they’re supposed to without their respective finances looming over their shoulders.

Even M is inordinately pleased, bullying of the higher ups be damned-- because lower mortality rate means less people to train (and less paperwork) and also, even though everyone else’s budgets had taken the usual beating, MI6’s still saved enough money between funerals and training expenses to outfit every department with new coffee machines-- ones that actually make decent coffee.

It just so happens that everyone agrees that coffee is better than death, unless it’s fighting to the death over the last cup, in which case it’s for a good cause and everyone can get behind that.

Consequently, Q unwittingly becomes everyone’s favorite, almost overnight and nobody ever suspects that things are about to get odd-- very, very soon.

*

Considering that they are a highly respected espionage agency, exactly no one should be surprised at this turn of events, but they all manage anyway when things finally come to a head.

Perhaps it's the way Q actually stands up to the double-oh's when even M has to think twice sometimes, or perhaps it's the way things actually go down but, suffice it to say, everyone is left gaping in astonishment when the not-so-new-anymore Quartermaster actually physically throws 006 and 007 out of his office.

"And I repeat," he says, sounding quite calm for someone who's red-in-the-face with rage. "You will receive exactly _nothing_ from this branch until you sleep a full night and eat at least six proper meals."

"You can't do that!" Bond retorts mildly as everyone else stares on, looking as though he is so utterly confused at this turn of events that he doesn't even know how to react-- but is going to die trying anyway, bless him.

Alec himself is too busy staring to make a similar retort of his own, but he does dutifully nod in agreement with his best friend.

"Martinis and whatever weeks old granola bar you can find in your jacket pocket do not constitute," Q continues blithely as though Bond had never spoken. He prints out a food pyramid, handing it off to the recalcitrant duo.

"I've circled all the most important nutrients your body needs and made a list," and here, he pauses to print out another sheet to hand over, "of acceptable food choices. Any questions?"

"I prefer Scotch," Alec says, a little dumbly because he's still at least two sentences behind in the conversation which, considering that everyone else is still fixated on the very beginning of it all, speaks well of his caliber as a man.

"Okay then," Q nods agreeably. "Alcohol in general then, is not and will never be considered a food group. Are there any other pedantries that you would like to address? Any other inane little details? Because I have work to do you see."

"You, sir, are a horrible person and we hate you," responds Bond as the designated spokesperson for both himself and Alec.

"So you've said," Q says mildly, "and since all the weapons vaults require my retinal scan, my voiceprint, and my fingerprints, it would seem that _you_ are out of luck."

"Two days, Bond, Trevelyan." Q nods before smirking a touch obnoxiously. "You're super spies and all that rot, yeah? How hard can this be for you? Your mission, should you choose to accept it blah blah."

Having said which, the quartermaster proceeds to walk back into his office and slam the door shut-- only to come stalking back out mere seconds later when 006 finally comes to himself and says, "Veggie spears? Heads of lettuce? I thought he said we weren't allowed weapons?"

"Right," Q says, deadpan, as he yanks the papers out of the agents' hands. "I forgot that you’re hopeless. So, new policy. You are to report to Q branch for your meals from now on."

He completely misses the twin smirks the agents exchange at the news.

*

In retrospect, it's actually mildly hysterical how quickly Q becomes the resident mother hen after that, as though all he'd ever needed was a catalyst before he unleashed his latent tendency to just cow people into letting him care for them.

This is mostly funny because Q is, without a doubt, the youngest person in MI6 and the irony is not lost on anyone because nowadays, it's not so strange to see a man in his fifties (001 or 008 usually) being bullied into eating, sleeping, or both by a twenty something with glasses and the most ferocious scowl anyone has ever seen.

Even the double-oh's who are particularly known for being injured in violence and death live in fear of the day when that scowl turns on them, for it can only mean that they are officially on the shite list from hell. That would then mean that Q would never talk to them again and that would be bad.

After all, Q's bollockings are legendary for making the recipient want to kill themselves out of pure shame.

However, barring one exception involving 005 and a particularly loathsome general where Q had nearly clawed said general's eyeballs out for making comments to the tune of someone being someone else's bitch-- Well, things have been going relatively smoothly and no one has been subjected to Q on a warpath quite yet.

Generally speaking, all of MI6 is accepting of their quartermaster's quirks, and the double oh's themselves are particularly enamored with being cared for, for once.

Granted, they could do without being treated like they're about two years old, but as long as it's Q doing it, they can't bring themselves to really care too much-- especially since it gives them an excuse to indulge in behaviors that they've never had the chance to In a long, long while, if ever.

*

**There are instances like this:**

“I can kill you with a toothpick you know, a used one even,” 003 says with a pout already in his voice and starting to creep into his face. Incidentally, said face is currently facing away from, well, people in general really and is crammed into a corner that isn't even remotely interesting enough for such scrutiny.

Eve doesn’t even want to know what it says about her life that it doesn’t even occur to her to question this phenomenon.

“Mmhmm,” Q says in the meantime, distracted as he tinkers with the molten remains of what had once been a state of the art machine gun. “Seeing as I’m the one who would have to provide you with the killer, exploding toothpick, I feel relatively secure in the knowledge that I won’t be dying anytime soon.”

“Exploding toothpick?” 003 asks after a moment's pause, sounding incredibly interested despite pouting mere moments before.

Q just sighs because this is his life and of course, out of all the things Q says, that’s the thing the agent would zero in on.

But still, Eve postulates, it’s entirely possible that he is an absolute marshmallow and isn’t actually capable of enforcing any sort of punitive measures-- because he opens his mouth and says things like, “Maybe if you’re really good and bring back both your equipment _and_ yourself in one piece for three missions in a row, I’ll see about scraping up some funds for an early birthday present.”

Despite everything, 003 lights up like a particularly dangerous Christmas tree.

"Alright, then!" he says, suddenly willing to face his penance like a man and looking entirely too cheerful for someone who’s just effectively been sent to the corner.

Speaking of--

“Really?” Eve can’t help but ask, because _really_?

Q only smirks. “For twenty full minutes,” he says, sounding smug. “Any out of parameter fidgeting gets him another five plus interest.”

"You know he's thirty five," she feels the need to mention, just in case.

003, for his part, groans an agreement, before proceeding to pout and attempting to badger Eve into convincing M that Q is a potential tyrant who needs to be taken down, pretty please.

Eve suddenly understands.

Q merely sniffs and says, “Twenty-seven and a half minutes.”

He then spends a moment just eyeing the agent, as though waiting for a toe out of line to add another five minutes.

When no further snarking could be heard from the corner, Q simply turns back and says, “Like I was saying. You’d be surprised how effective this is. It’s like staying still for any length of time is the worst thing on the planet.”

“And who knows,” he goes on to add, loudly and pointedly in 003's direction. “Maybe this way, they’ll finally learn that unnecessary risks are not acceptable, because there are people back home who are too young to have coronaries and would really rather not expire from the sheer worry.”

“I see,” Eve replies, because she really, really does.

On the other hand--

“But you understand that they’re not actually children right?” she asks again, partially to make sure and partially in the hopes that 003 will hear her and throw a massive fit.

Q grins back, a knowing look on his face as though he knows what she’s doing and approves. “Well,” he says thoughtfully, “if the shoe fits….”

Right on cue, 003 wails about the injustice of it all, as though he weren’t a fully trained assassin with a government sanctioned license to kill— who happens to be on punishment because he nearly got his leg blown off trying to jump over a mine instead of simply _going around it_ \--

\--and Eve just laughs and laughs because what even.

Her laugh tapers off into a soft smile though when, just as she's leaving, she hears the agent quietly apologize.

“I’ll really try to be more careful,” he says, sounding smaller than a man of his size and age has any right to.

"Remember," Q fires back gently, sounding too fond for words, "three missions. No wounds. Working weaponry. And that toothpick is yours."

*

**Then there are instances like this one:**

“So,” Q says, his voice as mild as it ever gets when he’s irrationally furious, “the analysts, oh how does that quaint Americanism go? Something about buggering a dog?”

Bond, for once in his life, actually takes the cautious route. “Er,” he says, sounding about as clever as, well—he doesn’t sound very clever at all really.

However, he’s mildly terrified and also a lot in pain and his quartermaster had just single-handedly taken down five fully armed men despite looking like a stiff wind could snap him in two.

As far as he’s concerned, being clever has officially been sent somewhere to the back of the line, landing somewhere between continuing to breathe and trying to make sense of a reality where there are things about Q that no one knows, apparently.

“Ah, yes,” Q continues onward in the interim, the look on his face only one small step away from that of a psychopathic serial killer, his fingers gently untying the ropes keeping Bond tied to the chair even as he rants, “they’ve just signed their own death warrants. That’s what they did.”

“Actually,” Bond rasps out, trying not to sound disturbed and summarily failing because he’s mostly sure that the other man isn’t making death threats just to lighten the mood, “I believe the phrase is, ‘screwed the pooch.’”

Q just gives him a serious look, one that speaks of care and the sort of rage that it can bring about, runs gentle fingers through James’ hair. 

"No. No it really isn’t," he says, "I believe that the phrase is actually, 'they’re going to get flayed because they are single-handedly responsible for a major cock up, the likes of which MI6 hasn't seen in a long long time.'"

‘What?’ Bond wants to ask, because he doesn't understand why Q is so upset -- except his body chooses that particular moment in time to fail him and he’s left to flounder in darkness until he wakes back up to too bright lights and starched white hospital sheets.

It isn’t until later that Bond will learn that, despite a paralyzing fear of flying and the dire warnings issued by every member of the espionage upper-echelon about security clearances and the potential disaster that could occur should Q be taken as well-- Q had jumped onto the first plane he could just to come after him.

It won’t be until a few days further still, when they finally take him off the drugs and things start to feel less sharp, that Bond will start to look into the history of a man with too much courage, of a man who feels too much for there not to be a train-wreck somewhere in his storyline.

*

**And hell, there are even instances like this one:**

"Children," Q says mildly, eyeing the _filthy messes_ that had once been proud double oh's. "I know for a fact that each and every one of you is a full grown adult and should, therefore know how to eat without dribbling all over yourselves. So. It's with great trepidation that I ask: what in the bloody hell happened here?"

He receives slightly guilty but mostly unapologetic looks in response.

"Well, you see," 002 starts, tossing her hair back and accidentally ( _accidentally?_ ) catching 004 in the face with the goop that flies off, "there was a, a bit of a disagreement, if you will."

"A disagreement," Q deadpans, taking in the sheer destruction wrought into what had once been a perfectly clean, if unused, corner of Q branch before turning a look onto the agents, as though asking, ' _That's_ the excuse you want to go with? Really?'

Right on cue, they all splutter.

"Well if--" 002 manages to say before Q cuts her right off.

"You know what?" he says, rubbing at the bridge of his nose even though he knows that it will do jack-all to stave off the impending migraine. "I don't want to know. I should have seen this coming when I suggested that you all eat here." Which, really, he's reconsidering right now because he isn't sure that his neurotic need to make sure that his agents eat actual food outweighs his desire to not have to explain this one to M.

"We," says 004 after having a silent exchange with the other agents in the room and while removing bits of fruit from his hair at the same time, "resent that."

"Duly noted," Q drawls, eyeing the agents and questioning his life choices because even now, he somehow feels affectionate when he looks at them.

"Go _bathe_ , you nutters," he says in lieu of petting them like overgrown pups, before calling for the cleaning crew to come in and take care of the mess.

He feels impossibly fonder still when they toss identical smirks at him and file out with a triumphant, "Yes mum."

*

**But nothing, _nothing_ , beats this:**

There is a time when the entire of the double oh sector unanimously decides that Q and Bond are, for lack of better a term, a _thing_.

This ruling is quickly followed by an addendum, damn 009 and his penchant for effectively spraying oil all over an already raging fire-- wherein, if Bond and Q aren't already together, it would be the other double ohs’ duty, nay, _privilege_ to assure that by the end of the inevitable debacle that would ensue, _they will be shagging or else_.

"It's for your own good," 009 says at the time, nodding sagely as he steadily eats his way through Q's personal snack drawer. "I mean, who better for you than one of us?"

"Mm," Q grunts nonchalantly, his concentration fully on hacking into a Russian mainframe without leaving a trace, rather than on the devious bastard sitting in front of him.

"I mean, it's only too obvious that you two fancy each other," the unmitigated arse continues on in the meantime. "Just look how you flew all the way to Beijing to personally rescue him. You _loathe_ flying, Q!"

"Mmhmm," Q responds because he is apparently far less smart than everyone gives him credit for.

The way 009 lights right up should be an instant warning for Q to drop everything and pay attention, as should the way he says, "So you agree then?" After all, that level of unholy glee is never a good look on anyone, much less someone like any one of the agents under Q's care.

As it happens, Q and his stupid self simply agree without a second thought, because Russia is more important right now and, really, what's the worst that could happen?

His mistake.

Suffice it to say, Q spends the next three weeks being alternatively shoved into closets and beds, all of which coincidentally also happens to have Bond crammed in as well.

*

“Really?” Bond growls out around the third time that Q’s sharp, pointy elbows nearly poke his eye out. “Bloody, buggering hell. Watch it. And also, _again_?”

Q doesn’t even bother to respond in turn before he’s falling to his knees and whipping out his lock-picking kit, because this is the eighth time that this has happened so far.

He doesn’t notice the way Bond’s eyes darken as the man takes in his new position; he also pointedly ignores that miniscule part of himself that isn’t dedicated to the job or to the self-imposed exercise in futility that’s taking care of his double ohs-- the part that’s only there to hurt every time Bond doesn’t notice him in a romantic fashion.

Which is just, ugh. Q can’t even deal with this shite, but he still manages to get them out in record time.

*

Telling them to stop does exactly nothing other than to encourage them even further. Which is why, even after Q gives them a particularly thorough tongue-lashing and restricts their sweets for a full week, he still finds himself trussed up like a bloody birthday-gift and shoved onto Bond’s bed like so much-- he doesn’t actually want to finish that thought.

“Don’t,” he bites out when Bond finally makes it in and rips out the gag. “Not a bloody word.”

To his credit, Bond doesn’t actually _say_ anything, but with that particular smirk on his face, he doesn’t have to. 

Q hears the mockery loud and clear.

“Untie me, you great buffoon,” he says with what’s left of his dignity. “002 did a particularly good job with these knots; I can’t actually feel my fingers.”

*

The twentieth or perhaps the thirtieth time this happens, Q finally gives in to the inevitable and ends up snogging Bond.

He finds this to be a far more effective way of shutting the man up than he could've ever hoped.

*

((In all actuality, it’s Bond who eventually loses the fight against his own UST and ends up tossing Q against a wall-- but that’s not really the most important thing to take away from this fiasco as far as Q is concerned. After all, what does it matter who made the first move?))

*

Incidentally, a few months later, he flies out to Korea in a frantic attempt at saving 009's life-- because no one else has quite the amount of finesse that he does in situations like this and also, he’s got _contacts_.

One gunfight, a bullet wound to the shoulder, and another thirteen hour flight later, Q smiles and makes sure to say, "Look, I just flew _and_ got shot for you. I’ve officially done more for you than I have for 007. Doesn't mean I want into your trousers, hm?"

009 merely groans and nudges at Q to continue petting his hair-- he's hurting far too much to indulge in snark right this moment. Also, the thought of Q and Bond going at it is somehow less hot and more revolting than he’d ever expected-- rather like imaging one’s parents actually daring to have a sex-life.

*

There is the one instance wherein M is forced to interfere: when the prime minister herself proposes that Q be removed on the grounds that someone who's too busy being a baby-sitter could not possibly be a very good quartermaster.

Incidentally, this occurs right around election time, where a proper scapegoat for the Silva incident and number of the other cock ups that have occurred since would not be amiss.

The stupid bitch slings around phrases like, “not fit for duty,” and keeps pointing out the need for someone, “brilliant _but with a human touch._ ”

It’s obvious that she isn’t questioning Q’s intellect, at least.

What she forgets is that M had seen the man in question break every rule in the book within the _first 48 hours_ of his tenure-- all in the hopes of keeping one of his agents alive and relatively well. He’d seen the same man grieve for a woman whom he’d barely known, had seen the man squarely place the blame on himself and not-so-gently steer 007 away from drinking himself into an earlier grave than necessary. 

More importantly, he’d seen the very same same man _drag double ohs by the ear_ in order to get them to _behave_ , a sight that M never, ever wants to be without.

((“Bloody ow! Q! I’m not bloody four!”

“Well then, stop acting like it, hm?”

“He started it, though!”

“You’re arguing against yourself. What sort of self-respecting _not_ four-year-old would _say_ something like that?”))

Frankly, M can’t afford to lose the entertainment value or the free-of-charge and, more importantly, _competent_ agentsitting-- and if the 00s all seem a little less broken with each passing day, a little less like they’re being held together with addictive personalities and sheer force of will, well, that's a good thing too. 

After all, their new quartermaster has been known to kick M's own door in if he thinks that his double ohs should be sleeping before debriefing or, more recently, if he thinks _M himself_ is working too hard-- and that sort of balls is just impossible to find nowadays.

Besides, M knows without a doubt that if he were to lose his quartermaster, he would also lose most, if not all, of his agents. It’s with that thought in mind that he speaks.

“I’ll take that under advisement, mum,” he says evenly, tells himself that kicking his direct boss’ face in is categorically a Bad Idea, and doesn’t tell her where to shove it by the skin of his teeth.

If wishes were horses and all that rot.

In the end though, he isn’t actually fully convinced that his reticence is a good thing until later in the day, when Q gifts him with a door-locking mechanism that only allows in people with IQs over a certain number. Then again, the only people he really wants to keep out are the double oh’s under his jurisdiction which, considering that most of them have exemplary intellect, makes him think that maybe he should’ve put the minister in her place, after all.

Would have probably been more satisfying, all things considered.

Q just laughs when he says as much. “We just broke you in, sir,” he says, eyes crinkling at the edges in his mirth, “We don’t want to break in someone else. As it stands, we’d probably just _break them_ , period.”

Well, when he puts it like _that_ \-- no, no. M still wants to commit violence upon the prime minister’s person.

*

On a complete side-note (or maybe not really), it gets to the point where it’s not so strange anymore to see any number of sleep rumpled agents staggering their way out of Q branch, seeing as there's a small camp-bed that's taken up residence right by the quartermaster's work space.

There is the occasional newbie who’ll get stumped when, after a particularly hard mission, one of the agents will _willingly_ drag themselves in and curl up _without an argument_ \-- usually around Q if at all possible. 

But most of Q Branch is utterly used to having a double oh or three underfoot at all times, which does include one or two (and on one memorable occasion, _four_ ) of them asleep on that bed as a rule.

All the aggravation that entails is worth it to see one of two things though, one way or another. They either get to indulge in watching their boss being soft (by running his fingers through their hair or occasionally shushing them when they start to have nightmares) or they get to see their tiny, willful quartermaster bully agents into taking catnaps, a sight made all the more spectacular when the double oh’s are exceptionally sleep deprived and prone to particularly stupid threats/arguments.

(“I demand you release me, vile fiend, or I shall summon Emma, forthwith!”

“Who on earth is Emma?”

“I...am not a hundred percent sure. However, I will sleep on the condition that I receive an exploding cactus in the near future.”

“That sort of capitulation is incredibly suspicious. Are you dying? Also, why a cactus, of all things?”

“ _All the shrapnel_ , Q! Also, I may have had to break into a room at one point, possibly with my face.”

“...right. No cactus. Also, we’re going to medical.”)

*

But then again, maybe it’s not a side-note at all. Maybe it’s because of things like that, that somehow (likely due to the mother-henning and the forced mollycoddling, in retrospect) the entirety of MI6 somehow forgets just how dangerous Q has to be-- they all forget that all agents of MI6 either have something to hide or something to discover.

Q is no different.

That much becomes apparent very shortly.

*

What happens is this.

There is a group mission, one of those rare ones where more than two double oh agents at a time are dispatched, which really should’ve been a warning in an of itself. As it stands, no one thinks anything of it because it’s a mission in Russia, which means that the safety precautions may really be for the opposing team as much as it is for themselves, and things still stand a chance of becoming exciting.

The only problem is, everything has been going almost disgustingly smoothly.

“Oh stop moaning,” Q says, a little more acerbic than his usual, “You’ll all get back in once piece for once. What’s wrong with that, exactly?”

“There are five of us here,” Bond groans out, “ _Five_. And by the looks of it, there’s not even enough baddies to be a hindrance for _one_ of us.”

“Alright,” Q retorts absentmindedly, “Let me break this down for you. If it’s so easy, get it done quickly and _come home_.”

Bond practically purrs, switching from deadly assassin to _flirtatious arsehole_ of a deadly assassin in no time flat. “ _Home_ , hm,” he says, “And what exactly are you going to for me when I get _home_?”

“You’ll find out when you get here,” Q hums back, “ _If_ you actually bring my things back in once piece this time.” 

“Oi!” 009 snaps when Bond looks affronted and as though he were two seconds away from saying something outrageous, “We get enough of that in bloody England, yeah? We don’t want to hear it on mission too.”

007 snorts and is about to say something witty, potentially scarring and/or offensive, when he’s interrupted, _again_.

“Alright, that’s enough kiddies,” Q says, stepping in before it comes to blows, “Remember. We just want the drive. Then we’re free to go.”

\--which is about when everything blows up in their respective faces, literally.

One second, there are five of them in various parts of the building that they’re infiltrating, banter flying back and forth between them and Q’s voice in their ears and the next, there’s gunfire raining down on them and distinctly _American_ voices piggybacking their frequency.

What happens after that is an adrenaline filled blur, but each and every agent there remembers three things. One, they remember gunfire-- being fired upon and also firing back in equal measure. Two, American accents with the distinct orders to _stand the fuck down, goddammit_ , which none of them are inclined to pay attention to on account of being _shot at_ , and three--

“This is Alpha Foxtrot One One Three Five. Codename Saturn. Stand down,” Q says, sounding for once as though he were utterly panicking, “Repeat. This is Saturn. _Stand down_.”

\--and, to exactly everyone’s surprise, the gunfire actually stops.

The double ohs don’t even have the time parse the fact that Q was rattling off what should have essentially been drivel before another voice joins them on their comms.

“ _Brandt?_ ” someone chokes out, sounding an odd mix of surprised and hopeful, “Oh my god, _what?_ ”

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly don't know what I'm doing anymore. Sorry. Part two will happen within a week.


End file.
